38 Recent Deviations
Featured: Young swans
Warning to a Sea-Creaturebeware of men that will leave youWarning to a Sea-Creature by ~BluestWaves
to find themselves,
because they find themselves;
and then it's your turn to leave.
Beware of men that look like iceland,
feel like iceland,
because they're so white and far away,
but when spring comes it fills their forests with plantlife.
You're usually only water.
of men that feel caged when they're caged,
they share the wanderlust and may or maynot
whisk you away.
And because there is no map hidden in your pulse,
you only have your heart to guide you,
that is why beware the most
of men who follow stars.
Fukushimawe can't be closer because sharing a dream is death,Fukushima by ~BluestWaves
but dream me in the sea, while we remember it,
I'll try to dream myself there too.
Before we wake up together to
the same dream,
fish are ashes and the seas are death.
Not a princeI don't want a sailor kind of price,Not a prince by ~BluestWaves
that'll hold out the nets in the tempest
hoping to catch the ghosts of the fog.
He'd fiddle with the sails and bind them tight,
to safely get to port every night,
avoiding the ridges.
And if I think about it, I don't even want a prince,
I wouldn't have anything to give him in return
to make us equal,
but it's ok.
I'm not afraid of death, or of adventure;
I have an ocean soul and I'm home in the wilderness.
But for what tides stir up inside me,
(silences and revolutions, and understanding,
- for the chaos that I like,
I could want a storyteller,
someone simple enough to build up infinite worlds of smoke,
where the truth is dressed up like another truth.
I guess because a storyteller wouldn't mind the wheel unsteered,
the sails not held,
the wildest wind;
because the cresting waves that don't scare me won't scare him,
he'll also know that the wanderlust is worth risking
Navigator IIINavigator II by ~BluestWaves
Through the ridge-like skin on my back
your fingers sail,
retracing my memories of the NordOstSee kanal.
The bruises on my skin are
leftovers of clams by the high tide,
emtpy cups, broken cups,
the last siren of the lighthouse
before dawn lights up the sky.
You're coming out of the forest.
Out on the open prairies where you
can't get lost any more,
there's no darkness left at all,
and a horizonline aflame with the sun rising and setting at
the edge of the end of the world,
the only one place that could make me return.
When I arrived you were there waiting,
watching the primordial waves
turn my life around.
We will live to see the universe regain balance,
not once, not twice,
but enough times to stop counting revolutions.
We'll have stopped on the shore to bury old scenarios,
and you'll pluck the mussels off my spine,
I'll sew your scars away.
We'll plank ourselves anew.
And when the pilgrimage begins again,
we'll have gotten off the boat,
and we'll wake up to ou
|More Journal Entries|